


Drabbles

by canyouseemyspark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Dubious Consent, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Pre-Series, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:10:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canyouseemyspark/pseuds/canyouseemyspark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various drabbles and short fics. Accepting requests in the comments and on tumblr!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alys/Sigorn

He is out of place in Karhold, unused to being held between stone walls with more mouths to feed than warriors to lead. It unsettles him, she knows, the sight of the men, women, and children half-starved and freezing, living in their crude shelters behind the castle gates. She likes to think that it is because he is not a cruel man that he does not say anything, does not yell at their people ("kneelers" he would call them) to take up spears or swords, to fight for their lives as the wildlings fought for theirs, but she knows it is likely only that he speaks so little of the Common Tongue. Without the words to speak, he looks at them instead with eyes full of pity and mistrust but the people are only hungry, only tired and they do not meet his gaze.

It did not take long for her to learn on the journey south that the boy who swore vows to her with the heat of the Red Priestess' flames surrounding them was not a boy, not truly, but his father's son, a lord and a commander and a killer when he needed to be. They trudge through knee-deep snow and winds that seem to be forged of icicles, but he is not cowed. It is only on the seventh day of their journey, trapped in a blinding storm that leaves them no choice but to set up their camp in the thick forests surrounding Karhold, a storm that takes so many men and horses it seems as though their host has been cut in half, that she finally sees _him_.

He does not lie above her, bringing her thighs up to wrap around his waist, does not make her mount him with eyes trained on her breasts, staring at her with a hunger that leaves her blushing despite herself, leaving her feeling like a foolish young girl. Instead, he slides into her cot, his chest wrapped flush against her back. The smell of him wakes her ( _how strange it is, to recognize a man by his smell and know nothing else of him_ ) and with his warmth surrounding her, sleep tugs at her. Sigorn refuses her that, pushing aside her furs and finding his way inside her smallclothes. Alys tries to turn around to press her lips to his - her husband has few words for her but he is not sparse with his kisses, though she suspects it is only to indulge her, this southron maiden who knows so little of men - but he surprises her, whispers a gruff "no" and  continues to move his hands against her skin until her breathing grows unsteady and she bucks her hips in some clumsy attempt at relief. He enters her then, and the feeling has become so familiar, has left her wondering, the pleasure leaving her languid, how she had made do without him, that she does not notice at first that he has buried his face in her hair, does not notice that his cheeks are moist and his voice is hoarse. 

By day, he is the wildling lord once more.

"This is my home," Alys says, when they stand within the warmth of the chambers she had kept as a child, and she wonders not for the first time how her life has come to this moment, the absurdity of it all which leaves her wanting to laugh, or perhaps cry.

He sniffs at the air, quiet for a moment.

"Home," Sigorn repeats.


	2. Edric/Shireen

He comes to Dragonstone when he is but a boy, bringing with him the scandal of his birth and the curse of her parents’ wedding bed. He is sure she does not think of it then, when she was but a lonely child craving a playmate, although he notices her father’s anger and her mother’s sullenness at his arrival but she at least does not see it as the insult it surely is, sees it – _him –_ only as hope, only as her savior from the empty rooms and sad games played with her fool. And it is a heady feeling, even as a boy, to be so loved and so cherished for simply existing, for sharing blood and black hair and blue eyes, for being someone to name cousin and friend.

It makes the move from Storm’s End easier, her trailing after him all shy smiles, teaching him the games she had been playing alone but that now would be made for two, and their shyness is gone in the face of come-into-my-castle and hide-the-treasure, and hopfrog. In those early years they had been allowed sometimes to share a room, the maids driven by pity for her and tenderness for him, and he would remember the feel of her eyelashes brushing against his cheek as they leaned their heads together, whispering children’s secrets of adventures dreamed, their breaths mingling. 

When they are older they play different games. Their world exists within the bounds of the castle walls, isolated by stone and sea, and he supposes it is easy to forget what lies beyond it. In his unkind moments, he tells himself that that is why it happens. He grows into an image of his father they tell him, all but the ears and with a slimmer frame, but the same eyes, and hair, and jaw, and good looks, and an easy way which drew people towards him. She is plain, his cousin, with scars that will never fade and hides within herself, keeps herself withdrawn and shares nothing with those around her.

 He does not remember when the kisses stopped being innocent. It seemed as though one day they had been chasing each other in Aegon’s Garden, exchanging dry, soft kisses the way they had seen the stableboy and one of the chambermaids doing it, giggling after and lacing their fingers together. And the next their hands were reaching into other places, their bodies wrapped around each other, heat pooling beneath their skins.

It pleased him, he could not deny, to see her by days sitting by her stern father, who still frowned when he looked at him, listening to petitioners and ruling over the household, and to know that by nights her body would be underneath his, legs wrapped around his, her breathing harsh and erratic, and his name of her lips. 

It was his folly, he realized later, to allow himself to dream. He learned too late in life that the promises whispered by starlight, whispered between moans and kisses and caresses, did not mean anything by day. But then he was only a boy though he thought himself to be a man, though he trained with a warhammer and played at war, smashing through the boys in the yard and pretending he was at the Trident, and it had been easy to be deceived.

On his eighteenth nameday he seeks an audience with his uncle, for once does not notice the grinding of his teeth and the looks on the other lords’ face, shock and fury, even as the Onion Knight looks at him with pity and sad eyes. _I seek your daughter’s hand_ , he declares, pledges things about _family,_ and _love,_ and his cousin stands beside her father and her eyes reveal nothing, even as his uncle turns towards her, _and how is it that one who is bastard-born dares to ask for the hand of the king’s own niece_ , and she says nothing, looks at him with those blue eyes that he thought were so very like his own but realized now they were only her father’s.

He sails for Lys in the morning, stands on the prow of the ship with his warhammer strapped to his back, and it is only when he looks back at the castle, looks up at her window and does not see anyone looking out at him does he realize that though he was a king’s son, a lord’s nephew, and a lady’s lover, bastard he would always remain.


	3. Barbrey/Willam

He fears to touch her sometimes, this wild thing that has become his wife, fears her at those times when she thinks herself to be alone, when she wakes and for a moment seems to forget where she is, when she smiles at some word one of her maids has said, when he sees her free and something dark flits across her face, and then she catches sight of him and her eyes shift. It is a small change, so small he thinks he may imagine it, but _something_ is pulled down between them, what was once light is returned to its cage and her usual coolness returns. She scares him, this child of seventeen years, this stranger who lives in his home and sleeps in his bed but who will never allow him to know her. 

He was a man of twenty and three, had lain with women before, whores and maids all the same, but never a lady and knew his highborn wife would be reserved, knew to be gentle but in their wedding bed she had not blushed or resisted, did not make an effort to hide her body beneath the furs or shield her breasts with her veil of brown hair. _Formal_ , that is how he could describe it, a transaction, simply a continuation of the wedding ceremony, fulfillment of their contract. She had looked away from him as he climbed between her legs, fixing her eyes to the window and the dark night outside as he spent inside her, and he was left the sweating, panting fool.

There is nothing he wants more than to keep away from her bed now that they have consummated their marriage. He is a man like any other but he has been Lord of Barrowton since he was a lad of twelve and the weight of it does not rest easy on his shoulders. Even with the company of Brandon, his future lord but his friend too, it had not been easy to bear. The gods did not allow him the comfort of a father to guide him nor brothers to share the burden and he spends his days ruling, returning to his bed weary and troubled. It does not leave much time nor desire for physical pleasures and it would be easy not to visit her, easy to fulfill whatever needs he had whenever they came with some chamber maid or with his hand.

But his pride does not allow him that, neither does his yearning for an heir, and he goes to her night after night, looking past her as she looks past him, hoping his seed will take root so they can both end this farce. 

It grows unbearable. 

To feel like a stranger in his own halls, avoiding her like an errant child hiding from his maester, and yet to seek her out like some starving man, hungry and curious for a glimpse of her, it is an accursed life he will not accept.

So a few moons after their wedding he seeks her out in the one place that is her own, and cannot help but smirk at the surprised – _affronted_ – look on her face when she sees him standing in his riding boots, both of their horses saddled, the reins in his hand. 

“My lord,” she says carefully, her dark eyes narrowing. 

“Would my lady mind if I joined her on a ride today?”

It is a command not a question, and she takes it as such, nodding curtly and taking the reins from his hands, their fingers brushing against each other for what seems like a minute and an age before she climbs atop her mare in one graceful action.

He is thankful when he rides beside her that he did not wait any longer. Brandon had enjoyed riding the Rills, had taken him once so he could share the place he loved, and they had watched as a girl raced across the landscape, a veil of dark hair following her. That was long before he knew that this girl was to be his wife. He watched her now, uneasily navigating the burrows and hills of his lands, and was grateful she was out of her element, glad to see her unsure and hesitant.

He speaks to her of the land, of its history, the tragedies and the joys that have befallen it, and perhaps it is the horse beneath her legs or the howling of the wind around them but she seems softer somehow, and although she does speak much he can tell when she begins listening, watching as her pale hands tighten and loosen around the reins, her eyes glistening and her lips chapped in the cold, looking dangerous and beautiful but so much a child and so much a woman.

They meet at dawn every day in the stables and it soothes him, he does not deny, eases him to spend the mornings with her and feel as though he is closer to knowing her. She begins to speak more, telling hesitant stories of her brothers and her sister, allowing him to touch her in those small ways that speak of so much more, holding a lock of hair between his fingers and brushing it behind her ears, hands on her legs as he helps her out of her saddle.

He tells her of the letter from Winterfell as they lie in the grass, their limbs tangled among each other, her head resting on his chest and she snaps around, unconcealed fury in his eyes so deep that it startles him.

“Haven’t the Starks taken enough?”

He does not understand, wishes to tell her of how Brandon pushed for their marriage, speaking to Lord Rodrick on his behalf and paying the dowry from his own coin, smiling wanly when William asked how he could return the service. _I only ask for your friendship and loyalty_ , he said, _through it all_ , and it had been an easy thing to promise. It is the least he can do, to fight for the man who would one day be his lord and would always be his friend, to bring back his sister and return things to what they were.

“It is my duty,” he says instead.

It does not soothe her.

The red stallion is waiting for him in the stable the day he is to leave, his wife standing beside it, wearing the same gown she had worn the day he had wrapped his cloak around his shoulders. 

“You will return,” she says, and it is a command, not a question.


	4. Brandon/Catelyn, Barbery/Brandon

There had been no question in his mind, that day he road to Riverrun and wrapped the direwolf cloak around Catelyn Tully’s shoulders. In the quiet of the night beneath the Northern skies, wrapped in another woman’s arms, cradled at her breast like a babe, he could dream, imagine himself standing in front of Winterfell’s heart tree, kissing a woman with brown hair and dark eyes as bright as stars. But he would wake after she had left ( _sometimes he lay there, listening to her breathing beside him, sometimes reaching out to touch a lock of his hair or caress the nape of his neck, sometimes to call his name, in a frightened, sad voice, and he would hold his breath and close his eyes and pretend he was asleep – and he did not know why, and hated himself for it_ ) and he was alone, and it was easy then to remember his duty, to remember his father’s stern face and harsh words, remember Winterfell and the lands that would one day to be his own, and the dreams would end.

Catelyn Tully was a pretty thing, auburn hair down to her waist and eyes as blue as the rivers that surrounded her home, sweet too, and kind and gentle, everything a lady should be. She cried beneath him when he entered her, and he thought he could see tears in her eyes ( _Barbrey had not cried, never cried, only bucked against him in challenge and afterwards it was him who held her, him who pulled her back to the blanket of leaves on the forest floor, kissing until their lips were sore_ ). When she came to his rooms months later, blushing prettily and telling him she was with child, he vowed he would try to love her, vowed he would not be cruel, vowed he would forget.

It was a strange thing, to be at Winterfell once again like a child beneath his father’s watchful eyes, riding only when it was time to visit the bannermen who would one day be sworn to him, never simply to feel the weight of a horse beneath him, to taste the snow on his lips, to look to his side and look into the eyes of a smiling woman with brown hair falling behind her like a cloak. 

He asked her to join him once, his lady wife ( _Cat_ , she said, _you must call me Cat_ ), but she had been heavy with child and looked at him in surprise – he had not been to her rooms since those nights early in their marriage, when she lay beneath him, her hands heavy on his back as he grunted and groaned, and left feeling guilty, and knew why and did not wish to think of it – and when he turned to leave the room, she asked him to sit with her, if he wished, her voice small.

He did, thinking that they were the two sole prisoners of Winterfell who had free leave to wander the castle but were bound by vows, things so much stronger than chains, but between words she reached to touch her swollen stomach and Brandon realized that perhaps there was someone who she loved already, someone that was half his but that grew inside her all the same, remained with her, within her always. So convenient, to love what you already owned, and he wondered if he would ever feel it too.

A moon’s turn later he held their child in his hands, a girl with russet curls and blue eyes, and for a moment stopped thinking of the dark-haired woman ( _that last night he whispered “I love you,” suffered her silent brooding, heard her cries only when he was outside the door and learned finally the bitter taste of duty_ ) and felt his chains loosen, if only a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an older fic but I'm reposting it here to try to get everything organized in one place!


	5. Daenerys/Rhaegar, Elia/Rhaegar, Lyanna/Rhaegar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A weird little thing I wrote that I'll probably turn into a longer work or part of a larger AU series.
> 
> The pairings already give it away but even though there's nothing explicitly sexual in the chapter, the content borders on dub-con because of the nature of the pairing and the age difference.

She is not afraid. 

Her brother’s queens had always been kind to her. Elia was everything Daenerys dreamed a mother would be, warm and kind, remembering all of her favorite treats and sending them to her at dinner, there to scold her when she misbehaved and to wrap her in her arms when she needed comfort. Elia raised her and Viserys alongside her own children, toddling after Rhaenys and Aegon, given the same presents, same kisses, same care as a child of her own blood. Dany remembered calling her mother once, and though Elia had corrected her she had done so kindly, as though she were sad for it too.

Lyanna as well, though it was clear to all she was unhappy, though all of them had to suffer through her dark moods, learn when they could crawl into her lap and share stories and when they should keep their distance, leave her to her memories and her sorrows. Dany was of age with Jon, even shared a wet nurse with him, learned to walk and talk with his hand in hers, and though Lyanna’s affections were not given as freely as Elia’s, she was never cruel, merely distant at her worst and willing to part with a few smiles and caresses at her best.

When she flowers, she is made to leave King’s Landing and though it is done with kind words and promises of a reunion soon, she can read the lines of Elia’s face and the grief in Lyanna’s lies.

It made no sense to her, she had explained to Viserys, having to leave when she finally became a woman, when she was finally able to become a wife for her brother. 

He had smiled, that smile of his that meant he knew things she didn’t, “You will not be ready to marry for years yet. What wives wish to look on as their husband courts a younger woman in their own house?”

She had wrinkled her nose at that, could not imagine her older brother, so dour and quiet courting anybody. _I have to marry him anyway_ , she’d thought, _why would he bother courting me?_ And the day her king, her _brother_ , announces to the realm that she will be his third queen, a fact she had known since she was a child but which the kingdoms did not, the women who may have been as mothers become her sisters and a veil is cast between them. It is Rhaegar who speaks to her of it, coming to her in Dragonstone, after Viserys had left for his own wedding in Sunspear, 

“You were beneath them as a princess,” He explained, “Now you will be as their equal. It will be provoke them as it would provoke anyone to share love or power. You must remain distant and do you duty.”

Her duty as a queen, she knew, but more importantly as a wife. Viserys had whispered to her of it, the princess her brother desired, the Visenya that his wives’ ruined wombs could never give.

Her brother leaves soon after that, and there is no courting, no letters, not until she is summoned to King’s Landing for the wedding, where she does not see her king nor the queens until she stands in the Sept of Baelor and he is in front of her, vowing himself to her and pressing his dry lips against hers.

It is only when she looks at Elia and Lyanna, standing solemnly by their children watching the proceedings, sorrow in their eyes rather than hate that she is afraid. Not of him, not of her brother, not of marriage when she has been taught her duty so well. Rather of a future where she might be the one in the crowd watching.


	6. Elia/Rhaegar, Arthur/Elia

“You have changed.”

He said those words to her once, as they stood together once more in the shadow of Starfall, and she had been so prideful, her head filled with dreams of her silver prince and a second crown in a palace on Blackwater Bay, that she had glowered at him, hardened her heart and ignored the grief in his eyes.

“When you are a knight in my _husband’s_ service, ser, you will learn that is no way to address your future queen.”

Arthur flinched at that as though struck and seemed as though he would say something, but only clenched his jaw and bowed, and remained silent for the rest of their journey to King’s Landing. Elia thought unkindly then that he had best get used to holding his tongue should he take his vows.

And silent he remains. In his White Cloak he stood at the Sept of Baelor and watched as she wed Rhaegar Targaryen, the man to whom they had both pledged their lives, though through different sorts of vows. They would both be sealed in blood; Arthur’s the kind that came at the end of a sword and Elia’s in a bed. And to bed her takes her, guards her solemnly as half the men of King’s Landing pull and claw at her clothes, and another woman might have shied away from their touch, fought back the tears, but Elia thought only of the man awaiting her in their chamber. If Arthur looked at her when she has been stripped and stands naked she does not know, though she wonders in later years, wishes she had thought enough to _see_ him.

He was on duty through her wedding night, when her prince’s hands reach out for her in the dark, when she cried out in pain and then pleasure, and she did not think to mend things, not until her husband takes them away to Dragonstone ( _“For your protection,” he had explained, and she’d loved him for it_ ), not until she swelled with child, not until she realized that her husband’s coolness was neither a matter of timidity nor inhibition but a part of his very nature. It was like cupping sand in her hands; in certain moments she felt him, understood him, when he would lay his hand on her belly and murmur to their child, when he would enter her and they would become one, and in the next he would be gone, fallen through her fingers, and no matter how much she tried she could not seem to bring him back.

It wore on her, his distance and his books, the wary looks of the only Kingsguard the king had sent with them, an old man named Harlan Grandison who never returned her smiles, the damp coldness of Dragonstone and the weight of loving someone.

She screamed, pulled at the sheets and howled louder than the waves crashing against the castle, for herself and her babe, felt the babe tear out of her, the world going back and woke with a little girl in her arms, her husband at her side.

“Rhaenys,” He stated, smiling, and when Elia reached to put a hand in his hair he had already lifted her daughter a way from her, cradling her to his own chest.

Rhaegar took Rhaenys to King’s Landing to present to court a few days after that, leaving her behind to heal before she could join them, and when she gets off the ship and arrives at the port, it is Arthur in his white cloak who meets her.

“Ser Arthur, it has been too long,” She greeted, realizing not for the first time how weak her voice sounded, “I feared you might not recognize your princess after such a long absence.”

“You _have_ changed, your grace,” He began, smiling.

She forgot how much she missed that smile.


End file.
